Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine
Page 33
The goddess giveth, and the goddess taketh away.
He smiled back. Perhaps he could get to like this woman after all.
He turned to Roshad and Bors. "Ready to pay Heaven another visit?"
"Always," Roshad said. "Especially if it's to pluck a few wings."
What passed for a smile on Maedora vanished, but she said only, "Fine. Grab hands."
Salim took Maedora's slim right hand in his left. Her flesh was smooth, yet cold as a sword left out in the snow. Bors took his right in one gauntleted paw, and Roshad hooked an elbow through Maedora's as she let one of the scrolls fall open.
Gav shoved his way through the Iridian Fold men, squaring up with Salim and grabbing his arm. "Ain't you forgetting someone, gov?"
Salim studied the boy's expression—still friendly on the surface, but with something new and hard just beneath. "I thought we went over this last time. Heaven is no place for a child." Even as the words left his mouth, he could taste the irony.
"Out of professional courtesy, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear the second part of that, sire. But as to the former—I think we can all agree that the situation has changed." He pointed to the smoke that wreathed the tall ceiling, creeping out through breaks and skylights. "Your angel friends have started messing with my city, and that makes it my business."
"I see. And what about that speech you gave me last time, about how nothing's worth dying for? How you take care of yourself?"
"I am taking care of myself," Gav said. "There ain't much work for a city guide if'n the city tears itself apart, neh? Besides, while I'm happy to extend every professional courtesy to a man of your obvious moral fiber, it's worth noting that last time you disappeared you nearly got yourself killed before you could return and settle your debts. And that, sire, is the same as running out on the check. So this time, I'm coming with." His grip on Salim's arm tightened.
Salim tried not to smile. The boy's patter really was amazing. Instead, he reached into his robe, withdrew Arathuziel's lock from his coin pouch, then handed the entire purse to the boy.
"Here," he said, "I'm pretty sure there's plenty there, even after what you spent at the White Lady."
Gav snatched the purse out of reflex, but his brow furrowed. "Gods' spit, gov, it's not about the damned money!"
"I know." Salim dropped the others' hands and grabbed the boy's shoulders, looking him in the eye. "I'm not leaving you behind because I doubt you. I'm leaving you because you're the only one who can do what needs to be done here."
Gav's anger dissipated, replaced by suspicion. "Oh?"
"This isn't just about Heaven, Gav. If we're going to fix this, we need to set things right in the city as well. I need you to gather anyone who might be willing to fight—the Freemen, folks who've lost friends to Caramine's people, clerics from the other churches, anyone. I need them willing to follow me, and I need them armed and ready whenever we return. The timing on this is going to need to be perfect." He released the boy's shoulders. "You've said you know everyone in this city. Prove it."
"Aye, sire!" Gav stepped back and saluted smartly, resentment replaced by a fierce grin. "When I'm done, you'll have a horde to rival the orcs of Belkzen. I could talk my own grandmother into taking up an axe for you, if'n I had either."
"I have no doubt." Salim smiled and grabbed Bors and Maedora's hands again. "Shall we?"
Maedora began to read from the scroll, the words touching Salim's ears and then sliding away, refusing to stick in his brain. As she did, the world around them grew fuzzy, as if his eyes were blurred by alcohol, yet those holding hands in the circle remained perfectly clear.
The background faded to a foggy white, reflecting the soft blue glow of Maedora's scroll. Then the process reversed, the fog flowing away to reveal a new scene.
Heaven. They were in the trees again, mists hiding their feet, golden light slanting through the boughs.
Maedora dropped Salim's hand and the expended scroll, then turned in the direction of Heaven's gates.
"Wait." Salim grabbed her arm. She turned cold eyes on him, and he quickly released his grip. "They might have someone watching the gate, remember?"
"Why? They've already made their move."
"Still, why take chances?"
Maedora sighed. "And you have another idea?"
Salim reached into his pocket and pulled out the thick, black-iron lock. Maedora's eyes widened slightly in understanding. She nodded.
Unsure how exactly to make it work, Salim took the lock in both hands and bowed his head. It reminded him awkwardly of some sort of prayer, but when in Heaven...
"Arathuziel," he began—then realized he had no idea how to finish the statement. How did one summon a redeemed devil? He settled for, "We have the information you seek." He paused for a moment, then called the angel's name once more for good measure.
They waited. Salim realized he was holding his breath. When ten heartbeats had passed, he let it out again in a sigh.
A burst of light dazzled his eyes, sending the ground-hugging mists rippling away in all directions. When the flare cleared, Arathuziel stood before them with burning sword drawn and black-chained wings spread, looking every inch the avenging angel.
Which he was, Salim supposed. Now more than ever.
"Salim," Arathuziel said, then nodded to the others. "I trust you know of the rogue angels' attack?"
"That's why we're here," Salim said. "We wanted to make sure you knew everything, in case anyone was trying to keep things quiet. It was Nemeniah and Malchion who framed you. They were the ones behind it all."
Black eyes shot wide above bloody tear-trails, then narrowed. "I should have known."
"Which means you didn't." Interesting. Either Heaven's higher-ups hadn't figured out exactly which angels were absent without leave yet—which seemed unlikely, given the plane's organized and orderly nature—or else Heaven operated on a need-to-know basis, at least where redeemed devils were concerned. Salim bet on the latter. Bureaucracy was bureaucracy, celestial or otherwise.
"How did you expose them?" Arathuziel asked.
"It was mostly a hunch, really." Now that Salim said it out loud, he realized how thin it sounded. Had he really confronted two angels based on no more than circumstantial evidence and a devil's accusations? He'd been right, of course, but still—he'd felt so certain when talking to Hezechor.
Which was undoubtedly what made the devil good at his job. Salim decided to leave that part out. "We knew from checking the Book of Lies that the text came from the Vault of Correction, and the inconsistencies in the record suggested an inside job. Since they never let Censors work alone, that meant there had to be two. And who better to pin it on you than someone who already knew and disliked you? So we confronted them."
Arathuziel's lips thinned. "You accused them based on that?"
"What did we have to lose? If I was wrong, we'd have offended a couple of rank-and-file angels—hardly the first time. But if I was right..." Salim paused. "Well, in this case, being right meant getting our asses kicked and banished to the far corner of nowhere. But at least it got us our answer. Nemeniah and Malchion are looking to start a war for souls with the rest of the planes."
"Where's Heaven in all this?" Maedora interrupted. "Why hasn't the Mountain sent a host to recover their wayward children already?"
Arathuziel shook his head. "They won't."
"Why not?" Salim asked. "What about righteously smiting the sinner and burning out corruption and all that?"
"Believe me," Arathuziel said, the frustration in his voice like a pot about to boil over. "If I could, I would lead the vanguard. But Heaven's leaders have spoken with those of the Boneyard. The psychopomps are naturally suspicious. The last thing they want is an even larger angelic host flooding across their border. What if once we got there, we decided that Nemeniah and Malchion had the right idea after all? The Lady's forces are more than capable of putting down a handful of rogue angels, but a whole legion...it's too risky."
Arathuziel smiled wryly. "You should know us better than that, Salim. Heaven deals in absolutes." He glanced up at his spread wings and the dark chains that pierced them. "I have my orders. I will remain."
"I'm sorry," Salim said.
"Don't be." Arathuziel looked back down at them all. "You've already done me a great service. I will pass your information on to Faralan and Garinas, and spread it as widely as I can, so that everyone knows the truth." He smiled a little at that. "I think I'll enjoy that part. But I wonder if I could ask one final favor."
"Our time is limited," Maedora noted.
"Ask," Salim said.
The angel looked to each of them in turn, then settled his blank eyes on Salim. "As an angel, petty vendettas are beneath me. I have been wronged, and the transgressors will be punished appropriately. That's all that matters."
"A noble sentiment," Maedora agreed.
Salim understood. "We, on the other hand, are simple mortals, fallible and filled with unworthy passions. We can't be expected to be quite so restrained." He smiled and held out his hand.
Arathuziel took it, his handshake firm.
"Make it hurt."
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gathering Storms
The hell I will!"
They were back in Kaer Maga, in an alcove of the Godsmouth Cathedral, accompanied by Bors, Roshad, and several clergy who scuttled around doing their best to eavesdrop surreptitiously.
Maedora stood with arms crossed. Despite her posture, she looked almost sympathetic. "For what it's worth, I would not have chosen this way."
"So change it!" Salim's forehead throbbed, and he rubbed at it with the heel of his hand. "I deserve to be there."
Her face hardened into its usual shell once more. "The multiverse cares little about what we think we deserve. The same is true of our employer. Our orders were clear: I am to lead the attack on the angels. You are to oversee the destruction of Caramine's device, and the bloatmage herself."
"Fine. So let me take out Caramine's machine now, then have a high priestess here use one of those scrolls to pop me up to the Spire right before you confront the rebels."
But Maedora only shook her head. "You know better than that, Salim. Timing is critical. Nemeniah and Malchion rely on the machine to supply them with continual reinforcements. If they learn of its destruction—if they even sense something's wrong—they might flee somewhere even the Lady can't find them. We need them to feel like they can still win, right up until the moment we take them. That means an apparently weak force confronting them on the Spire—and a simultaneous attack on the Material Plane."
"Which of course means me." Salim willed his jaw to loosen before he cracked a tooth. It did nothing to lessen his headache.
"What about us?" Roshad asked.
Salim and Maedora turned to Bors and Roshad. The two men had remained mostly quiet since returning from Heaven.
"What about you?" the psychopomp asked.
"We could lead the attack here," Roshad said.
"We have experience with war," Bors added.
Looking at the bigger man's scarred armor, Salim didn't doubt it, but he shook his head, which was now pounding like a bass drum.
"Thank you," he said. "Really—we appreciate the offer. But Maedora's right. The attack here is my responsibility, and I need to be able to see it through. I just wish there was a way to be two places at—"
A stabbing pain behind Salim's eyes knocked him off balance, driving him to one knee.
"Salim!" The Iridian Fold men raced to his side, overturning one of the hard wooden chairs the church had provided.
Salim's skull felt like a cracked egg, leaking its bloody yolk onto the floor. He grabbed at his face, desperately covering his eyes, as if that could somehow stop the flow.
And then the pain was gone, as quickly as it had come. He sagged against the men holding his shoulders, letting his head dangle loose on his neck like a hanged man.
The voice was only a whisper, yet it was the whisper of thousands—a choir's murmur. It rang from the rafters of Salim's hollowed-out head.
"Anamnesis," he whispered.
Roshad frowned. "What?"
Salim felt cold. So the Caulborn really did watch everything that happened in the city.
"Salim?" Roshad was squatting now, raising Salim's face to peer into his eyes. "What's going on?"
Salim shook his head, lifting a hand to wave the man away. He closed his eyes and tried to distill his chaotic thoughts into a single voice. A solution to what?
I don't understand.
A ripple of color pulsed across his mind—Anamnesis's amusement.
No. Salim didn't bother hiding his horror at the prospect. It was bad enough to have this monster in his brain, rooting through his thoughts. He didn't need to let the whole damned neighborhood into his head.
And in return? What do you get?
A small enough request, yet Salim's skin still crawled at the thought. Could he really ask the others to open their minds, not only to him, but to an alien being beneath the city? Not Maedora, certainly. But Bors and Roshad? The men had all but pledged their lives to him with this whole machoreithing, and they already tried to share everything with each other...
Wait. Your link—can it really cross the planar boundaries? Can you watch things on other planes?
Salim thought of the aeons and their tower, and his own ride in that lightning river.
It was unnecessary. Unnecessarily risky, in fact, and a deliberate flouting of his orders—in spirit, if not in the precise letter. And it would involve yet another player in this already overcomplicated game of interplanar hide-and-seek.
He opened his eyes and looked up at his friends. Even Maedora appeared concerned.
"I have an idea."
∗ ∗ ∗
"They're all ready for you, gov."
Salim peered through the crack in the door. Beyond, the common room of Canary House was free of its usual high-society revelers. In their place, the room stood packed with grim-faced men and women, most armed to the hilt. Salim spotted the women he'd met on his first trip to the Bottoms, Vera and the Sweettalker Xulaine, with a large knot of people he presumed must be the anti-Caramine faction of Freemen. Yet there were plenty of others: Necromancers from Ankar-Te with their Twice-Born servants. Men who wore chisels at their belts and tiny clockwork creations clinging to their dark robes. Obvious prostitutes of both genders. More of the stitch-lipped Sweettalkers, and a company of Duskwardens, the subterranean rangers Salim had met on his way into the city. There were even a few of the massive trolls in their bloodstained togas.
"Good crowd," he muttered.
"Could you possibly have expected anything less?" Gav puffed out his chest. "With me on the job, gov, you should be surprised anyone's not in attenda
nce. They've all sent representatives—Halman and the rest of the Freemen, the Ardoc Brothers, the Duskwardens, the Commerce League—"
"Commerce League?" Salim raised an eyebrow. "I need warriors, Gav, not merchants.
Gav stared at Salim, mouth hanging open. Slowly, he closed it and shook his head. "Apologies, gov—sometimes I forget that you're straight off the barge. Trust me on this one: those merchants scare me more than most of the others put together."
Salim grunted. "Good enough, then."
The door opened the rest of the way and Bors and Roshad slipped in. "The crows are here," the smaller man announced. "A big knot of them just showed up."
"That's everyone, then." Maedora had already gone to the Spire to ready their forces there, but Salim still needed the local Pharasmins on his side to provide magical support and healing. He didn't want any more of these people dying for Caramine's madness than absolutely necessary.
Salim looked to the two Iridian Fold men. "Ready?"
"Almost." Bors lifted something silvery and attached it to his helmet.
It was a steel mask, covering his features with a stylized replica of his face that left holes only for his eyes, nostrils, and mouth. The expressionless, inhuman smoothness made him look eerily alien.
The steel-faced man nodded silently.
"What's with the mask?" Gav asked.
"It's a litchina," Roshad explained. "A war mask. It keeps people from being able to read his expressions. His warriors won't be able to see his pain if he's injured, and a blank-faced man is more intimidating to the enemy."
"Not just the enemy," Gav said.
"Showtime," Salim said, and threw the door wide.
The muttering of the crowd quieted as Salim stepped up onto the common room's small stage, Bors and Roshad silently took up positions behind each shoulder, chain dangling loose between them.
Salim let the moment stretch. He knew every man and woman in the crowd would be studying him, taking in his dark Pharasmin robes and the half-melted sword at his side. He kept his face as blank as Bors's litchina.